So how had we reached this point?
How had we become so distant in such a short space of time? Power was like acid, it ate away at our love from the inside. The Gayet rumour had been poisoning my life since October 2012.
It was around that time, five months after the presidential election, that I heard it for the first time. Having myself been the butt of so many abject rumours, I did not believe it for a second. But then I heard that a dinner with artists had taken place at the Élysée Palace a few days earlier, on a Saturday evening. I had not been informed that it was being organised and I had certainly not been invited. Not a single person told me about it. Not François, nor his team – which was supposed to liaise with mine and coordinate agendas when he had time to himself – nor the President’s cultural adviser, who had suggested the dinner in the first place.
That Saturday I was stuck in Isle-Adam. For years I had rented a house in that little town outside of Paris to be with my children part of the week – back when my ex-husband and I had shared custody. As my children had now all moved to Paris I no longer had a reason to keep the house. So I boxed up my things. My sons helped me during the day and went out to meet their friends in the evening. It was my last weekend there.
It never even occurred to me to ask François to help me. He was the President and he had other things to do. I sorted through everything and, as was the case with each move, it was an opportunity to relive some defining moments. What should I do with my collection of Paris-Match magazines? I couldn’t keep them all. I flicked through a few of them. One of the magazines captured my attention. It was a 1992 issue, France was in the middle of an economic and political crisis and François Mitterrand was on the cover. Édith Cresson was Prime Minister and the situation was catastrophic. ‘Meanwhile Mitterrand is playing golf, ambling down the quays and browsing for books.’ That was the caption of the article. It wasn’t an attack, quite the opposite – the journalist was praising the President for being able to keep a cool head and gain some perspective. How things have changed! Nowadays nothing goes – not even a fortnight’s holiday in Fort de Brégançon after a year and a half spent campaigning. Different times… In 2012, the press was up in arms about François’ tanned face and our outings on the beach when half of France was on holiday. Twenty years earlier, France had looked on in wonderment at a President who could play golf in the midst of political turmoil.
I looked at a few more pictures. Pictures of my children when they were little, pictures of a life that was flying by at high speed. François called me around 11 p.m. but did not mention the dinner that he and Julie Gayet had just attended.
Obviously I thought it was strange that I had been excluded from this dinner at the Élysée but I didn’t let it alarm me. A month later, in November 2012, the rumour came back with a vengeance. Paris was alive with the news of a picture which apparently proved the affair. I grilled François: had he taken the actress home after dinner? He assured me he had not.
The whispers around town were starting to become chatter. The AFP was on the trail. One detail emerged: it seemed that it was a picture of him on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, where she lived at the time, a stone’s throw from the Élysée Palace. I called François from my office. ‘I’m on my way,’ he said. In less than a minute he was there. We went into the library next to my office. He told me he had been to her flat in September but for a meeting with other artists.
‘How many of you were there?’
‘I can’t remember, ten, a dozen.’
‘That’s impossible, you’re lying, it would have been in your diary. A President does not do that sort of thing unscheduled.’
I got angry. Under pressure, he told me that Julie Gayet had hosted a dinner with Pinault, the influential businessman, so that the two of them could meet. He did not specify whether it was the father or the son but he knew both of them and no President needs a matchmaker. In fact, I distinctly remembered him telling me one evening that he had had a tête-à-tête dinner at Pinault’s flat.
He had not come home late, we had met at the rue Cauchy and he told me that the businessman planned to return two Chinese statuettes that had been looted from the Beijing Summer Palace in 1860 by the Franco-British troops. Two bronze animal heads, a rat and a dog, that were missing from a twelve-piece set – a restitution of the Chinese calendar. This restitution was to be added to the Franco-Chinese diplomatic programme for the upcoming state visit in April. What had Julie Gayet got to do with that? Why had I been cast aside yet again?
The lie grated. But still I did not believe he was having an affair with her. In my mind, François was too invested in his role to take such a risk. And I had the weakness of trusting that we loved each other enough for that not to happen. Was I being naive? One of my journalist friends explained that right-wing policemen were fuelling the rumour. He suspected a political group of trying to create instability by fabricating stories to suit its purpose, as this was frequent practice. It was also my feeling.
I had been the victim of methods such as those during the presidential campaign: a false police record was circulated around press editorial boards. My lawyer had called an emergency meeting. Journalists from L’Express also contacted me to discuss it before the story ran. They knew the document was a fake and wanted to condemn the tactics used by the ‘other side’. If the file was to be believed, I had had affairs with half of the political establishment – right-wing and left-wing alike.
The document was a shoddy fake, but I had felt completely undermined by the whole sordid business. The only thing that mattered to me was that my children should not think that their mother was that sort of woman. For me, it was the first media tsunami – the first in a long series.
When the weekly issue of L’Express came out, my telephone started ringing off the hook. It was the press, of course – political affiliation did not matter in this instance, they were all calling. I did not pick up. I needed to protect myself. I did not switch on the television. I sought refuge in my Isle-Adam home. My eldest son called me: ‘What have you done, Mum? Why are they talking about you everywhere?’
‘Nothing, I haven’t done anything. Except being a candidate’s partner, which makes me a target.’
I had immediately gone home, put a load in the washing machine, as if to clean all that muck off. The list was so grotesque that it had made François smile. It did not make me smile.
Having experienced falsities myself, I did not believe the Gayet rumour. Seduction, quite possibly, but not infidelity. I reminded François of his lie several times – that dinner she attended when I was not invited. Then the rumour started to die out.
It was a short-lived respite. I was waiting for François in the Élysée Hall of Honour before an official trip to Russia, late February 2013. He was running late. I was told that a famous paparazzo was in his office. It seemed very odd. I took the stairs of the beautiful Murat staircase four by four – a staircase I hardly ever used – and walked past the ushers with determination. Under normal circumstances I would never dare barge into François’ office; in the last twenty months I had only been in five times. I opened the imposing door without knocking and addressed the unwelcome guest: ‘What do you think you are doing here? The likes of you have no place here.’
I knew him well, we were even friends at one point at Paris-Match, until it became apparent that he was not reliable.
He replied that he was here to warn François about all the rumours that were circulating. I decided to make the first move: ‘They say he has a black child in Corrèze. You mean the Gayet rumour? We’ve heard that one, it’s been going around Paris, we don’t need you for that one.’ Then I addressed François: ‘We have to go, everyone is waiting for you.’ After which I put my arm through his and turned on my heels, leaving the paparazzo behind.
The atmosphere in the car on the way to Orly airport was very tense. ‘What did he want?’ I asked.
‘Nothing special, just to inform me of all the
rumours.’
For the first time, I was suspicious: ‘You wouldn’t have agreed to see him at the last minute if you didn’t have a guilty conscience.’
‘Believe me, that’s not the case,’ he replied.
There were policemen in the car so I was forced to leave it at that.
A month later the rumour emerged again. It was the same scenario. It seemed that pictures were doing the rounds. I was also told that Julie Gayet was doing nothing to deny the story; on the contrary, she appeared to be playing the mystery card. I decided to call her. It was 28 March 2013 and that very evening François was making a television appearance. My phone call did not seem to surprise her. I explained that the rumour was very trying for me and harmful for François politically speaking. She replied that it was equally unpleasant for her. I suggested she deny it and put an end to this unpleasant episode. She agreed. I then sent another message to suggest waiting until the next day, so as not to pollute the presidential interview. ‘I’m afraid it might be too late, my lawyer has already sent out the statement,’ came her reply.
The timing was poor but the official statement denying the affair reassured me. The terms were unambiguous and firm. The actress announced that she would sue anyone who peddled the hypothesis of an affair. The wool was pulled over my eyes. I don’t understand how people can lie so effortlessly.
In any case it gave us a momentary break. I relaxed for a while. Meanwhile, imperceptibly, François distanced himself. Was he really pulling away from me or was the cancer of jealousy playing tricks on me? The rumour came and went. One evening, I had it out with François: ‘Swear to me on my son’s life that it is not true and I won’t bring it up again.’
He swore on my son’s life and asked me to give this so-called story a rest. He had too much work and too many worries to bother with gossip. I was, he reckoned, starting to become tiresome with this ‘hogwash’. I quote. Hogwash.
His self-assurance should have put my mind at rest for good but the poison had seeped in. I reasoned with myself and put his distance down to the pressures of his work. Everything was difficult for him, the political climate was not good. We were still a real couple, though, and we continued to share good times together.
The summer ended, autumn came around. The situation in France worsened. François’ popularity ratings had plummeted. Then there was Canal+’s Le Grand Journal4 news show on 16 December 2013. I did not watch the programme live and was unaware that Julie Gayet was one of the guests. I received a text message from a friend just before a dinner we had to go to: ‘Have you watched TV this evening?’
‘No, why?’ I asked.
‘You need to watch it.’
Before I could watch it, François came to pick me up at the flat and we left together for the dinner.
A journalist had suggested he meet ‘real people’. As it happened, it was a gang of Parisian bohos in a beautiful apartment with a view onto a seventeenth-century paved courtyard. I caught the rerun of Le Grand Journal on the internet afterwards. One of the actors in Julie Gayet’s latest film was adamant that the President had been on set. She did not deny it, she merely simpered.
I immediately called François on his mobile. He did not pick up. I tried getting through to him by calling his secretaries – something I did very rarely. I said it was urgent and I needed to speak to him as soon as possible. They promised they would put him through right after his meeting. He called me back promptly. I did not beat around the bush: ‘Did you go on the set of her film?’
He assured me he had not. But this time my patience had reached its limits. I was getting angry. He sensed it. I demanded a statement denying the affair. He promised it would be done within the hour. I left several messages on Julie Gayet’s voicemail, asking her to call me back. Which she never did. When François asked me to, in 2006, I similarly ignored calls from Ségolène Royal – François’ partner at the time. How ironic … infidelity is an infernal cycle.
We met that evening for dinner. My youngest son still lived with us but was not home that evening. The two of us had dinner together in the living room. François spoke of this and that – carefully avoiding the subject. His evasiveness was unbearable. I cut to the chase and told him I did not understand that girl’s attitude – refusing to dispel doubt – and reminded him that I had been beyond patient with this rumour. I expected him to take my side and fight back against her. But instead of reassuring me, he immediately leapt to Julie Gayet’s defence. I was outraged by his reaction and felt humiliated. I was fuming, too much was being left unsaid, it drove me mad. We fought and he spat horrendous things at me.
I went to the bathroom and took all the remaining sleeping pills out of the pack. There must have been about eight. I returned to the living room and swallowed them in front of him. I did not know whether the story was true – I could hardly believe it – I simply could not understand his attitude. I could not stand his silence any longer.
He had become so cold, so different – indifferent, even – and I felt he did not love me anymore.
He tried to drag me to the bathroom to make me throw up. My actions had been a cry for help. I passed out on the sofa. It was as if I was in a coma: I could no longer feel my body, I could not talk, but I could hear. Except that all I heard was his silence. He did not say a word, he did not even utter my name. He straightened my legs, touched my forehead and left. I stayed alone. The doctor was not called… No one came. The Élysée is a beehive, the heart of power, but private apartments are like bubbles of silence, protected areas no one dares penetrate – hang your chaos at the door. At times I have felt desperately alone there.
I eventually managed to drag myself to the bedroom and got a few hours’ sleep. I do not know whether he came back, whether he slept by my side. I cannot remember anything; the sleeping pills turned the lights out in my brain. I woke the next morning around midday. The Christmas party we were hosting for the children of the Élysée was due to start at 2 p.m. I had been the one to organise it and I knew many of the underprivileged and disabled children attending – I could simply not let them down.
I wasn’t sure whether I was fit to go. I got out of bed and stood up, feeling nauseous. I wanted to make it to the party at all costs. Besides, I firmly intended to shine in his eyes. I wanted him to see me, I wanted him to look at me at last. I decided not to wear the pink dress I had selected for the event, but opted instead for a Dior evening gown, adorned with rhinestones, that was on loan for a state dinner. The Élysée hairdresser and make-up girl arrived. Olivier and Nadia were nothing short of magicians.
‘Today I would like to pull out all the stops.’
I have never worn jeans; I have always tried to exude a certain elegance – a timeless style. When I arrived at the Élysée Palace, it was a whole new story! I had started buying fashion magazines as a teenager, daydreaming about all the outfits I would never wear. When I worked in television a stylist brought me chic clothes but never haute couture. I did not even dare dream of it! I took my first steps as a First Lady in prêt-à-porter. Soon, very famous and respected haute couture designers offered to lend me outfits that were more suited to my role. I wore Yves Saint Laurent, as well as a lot of Dior – I adored his dresses. Sometimes I went to the shop, and sometimes the outfits were brought to the Élysée for fittings that lasted for hours on end.
I still go to haute couture fashion shows.
The effect of the sleeping pills had not yet worn off so my voice was very calm – I felt like I was swaddled in cotton. The hairdresser and the make-up girl got down to work, giving it their all. We took our time. They transformed me. When I was ready I went downstairs, stopping by my office on the way.
My team gave me a warm welcome. We decided to take a picture all together. We posed several times, grinning widely. Not a single one of them could have imagined what had happened just one day earlier.
I had not seen François since he had abandoned me on the sofa. The plan was that I would attend the children
’s show alone; the President was only expected to make an appearance afterwards. Six hundred and fifty small faces had already taken their seats, and awaited the start of the show impatiently. The room was buzzing, filled with the sound of their laughter and their voices.
I stopped to give those I had already met a kiss. Most of them were in a wheelchair. When the singer, M. Pokora, arrived, the room went mad. At the end of the show, I was to join the President and return to the event with him in tow. I waited for him at the bottom of the Murat staircase in the Élysée. As soon as he laid eyes on me I could tell that I had hit the nail on the head with my outfit. ‘You are breathtaking,’ he said, ‘you look like a queen.’
We made our entrance together. For once he waited for me – he had taken to walking one step ahead of me, completely unconcerned about me. I went on stage with him though it was unplanned. He said a few words to the young public and, for the first time in months, he said a few words of thanks to me – public thanks for organising this enchanted Christmas.
Moments later I was dancing with a young man I did not know. Afterwards François and I went from table to table handing out gifts, posing for pictures and signing autographs. He was rather attentive to me. He came with me to speak to various organisations when I asked him to. The children could not get enough of us – they wanted a photo with the President, one with me, then one with both of us, and autographs too! An hour later, François went back to work.
I stayed until the end – at 4 p.m. Angela Merkel was expected an hour later and the staff had to pull off the feat of putting the function room back in order in such a short amount of time.
During that interval I saw Sarah and her children Eva and Raphaël in my office. The children’s father had died in Afghanistan in June 2012 – alongside three of his comrades-in-arms. After they died, I had accompanied François to the Invalides, to meet with the families. A tearful Sarah had asked the President for a special dispensation authorising a posthumous wedding – which he had of course granted. Her request had deeply moved me. I had travelled to the Pas-de-Calais department to deliver the document in person. Sarah managed a centre for disabled children, which she gave me a tour of on my visit. It was the beginning of a friendship.
Thank You for This Moment Page 4